you and me, demonstrably
by spidey-sense
Summary: "Well, hello again," he drawls, eyeing her up and down without even a hint of shame. "I knew you couldn't stay away from me for long." My crack at pre-season 1 exasperation and hotness. AU. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

part 1

* * *

"Well, hello again," he drawls, eyeing her up and down without even a hint of shame. "I knew you couldn't stay away from me for long." Who knew the NYPD held such gems among the grunting, donut-stuffed masses?

This one scowls, slaps a bulging file onto the table between them, and stands stiffly before him. In three-inch heels, she towers menacingly over his seated self, but in truth he's more concerned slash enthralled with her eyes, glinting slits that might actually cut him when she inevitably checks him out.

"Mr. Castle," she says, all ice for now. "Want to tell me what you were doing last night between eleven-thirty and one a.m.?"

"Depends," he says, following it with one lifted eyebrow. "Why do you want to know?"

Even with the hard line of her chin, the narrowed eyes, the lips pursed against every one of his maneuvers, there's something that isn't right, character-wise. As a world-famous writer, he's attuned to that kind of inconsistency. She's slim, well-dressed, and holds herself in that way that means she doesn't know she's hot. But that's not it.

It's not her body—okay, maybe just a little bit her body—that fascinates him, thirty seconds into their conversation, oops, interrogation. It's her gaze, leveled, too hard; it's her mouth, fierce, but holding back; it's something about her very person, a desperation, but not for him. Yet, he reminds himself.

After a moment of glaring at him, she relents to his query. "Annabelle Tramp. She was murdered."

"And you think I murdered her."

"I think you haven't given me an alibi," she says, finally taking her seat across the table.

He considers her: arms folded, frowning, and leaning forward with a huntress look that makes him shiver. That was quick; no messing around with this one. But surely that's why they brought her in here, after all. He has a reputation. "At around eleven-thirty, I was," he pauses, "preoccupied."

"With Annabelle Tramp."

"With someone else," he returns. "I don't even know who that is. Wait, Tramp. The Tramps? You don't actually think I know them, do you? I'm rich, but I'm not that rich."

There. He saw it. She bit back a smile.

"Can this someone else give you an alibi?" she asks.

His lips curl up. "She was asleep."

"And before that?"

"We were drinking hot cocoa at home until around ten."

"Drinking cocoa," she deadpans.

"And I stayed in all night."

"What a gentleman."

He gives her a moment to enjoy herself, then leans back in his chair. "It was my daughter. She was sick. If she woke up in the middle of the night, I was there. And Mother and I had it all arranged on the counter for her—painkillers, a washcloth." He smiles. "Marshmallows."

Her eyes soften slightly. "Oh." Then, "You live with your mother?"

A grin. "Now why is that relevant?"

"If…" she starts. "If she was there. Maybe she can give you an alibi."

"But detective," he lowers his voice, "I thought you wanted to lock me up and have your way with me."

She grimaces, but oh, it took a second. That second gives him hope.

"Mother was also preoccupied, and now that means exactly what you think it means. Outside of my place. Somewhere. I don't ask for details. She must have snuck back in early in the morning, though. Let me give you her number, so you can thoroughly check me out."

This is delightful.

But it stops all too soon.

"Okay, thank you, thank you, Mr. Castle and Detective Beckett," a voice booms from across the room, where a couple dozen people stand up and stretch. "A huge thank you to our special guests Rick Castle, the celebrated novelist, and Detective Kate Beckett, representing the NYPD, for that incredibly informative demonstration of interrogation room procedures. Our next demonstration will take place after lunch. Get excited, crime writers. It's time to get a close-up look at personal defense skills. And we're still looking for volunteers."

* * *

He follows her to lunch. It seems like the appropriate thing to do, after that intriguing display of—well, not affection, but chemistry, yes, definitely chemistry. He expects to catch her at a nearby bar, slide onto the stool next to her, and proceed to seduce her. Or at least find her, conveniently, in a booth, where they could really get to know each other.

But apparently lunch to Kate Beckett means hitting the snack machines.

When she furrows her eyebrows at the selections, he smiles. When she starts chewing on her lip, he takes a step toward her. When she bends over to pull out a bag of dried fruit and another of M&Ms, his eyes are drawn inextricably to her curves. Not that they'd strayed far. He'd only been busy appreciating her face.

She's addicting, he decides. One of those women who have a mysterious power that makes her every move, every glance, every inflection of speech, charged. He's met a few of them before, but this, her. She's something else. A puzzle. A hot, smart, witty, did he mention hot? puzzle.

"You gonna stand there all day?" she asks without even looking at him. Just gnawing on a banana chip like she couldn't care less if he looks at her for the rest of the day, the rest of their lives—wait, slow down, Ricky. Play it cool now.

"Why not?" he shrugs, leaning a shoulder against the vending machine. "When I have such a good view."

"So this really is you." Her tone is too neutral.

He preens anyway. "Better than you expected?"

"Exactly what I expected," she says, turning away from him and back to one lucky dried apricot. "So. Do those lines ever work for you?"

"Depends. Do they make you want me?"

Her gaze turns back to him and hardens. "They make me want you to leave me alone."

"Hey, now," he says. High time for a save, Ricky. "I'm just being friendly. You're a special guest. I'm a special guest. The rest of the people here are boring amateur writer wannabes. I mean, who goes to a conference to learn about crime-fighting?" His voice drops, "But you're different. You're interesting."

There's half a smile. "Interesting word choice there, writer boy."

"Writer man. Which you'd know if you—" he breaks off when the half-smile fades. "You have a story," he says softly. "I like stories."

"You're surprisingly eloquent for a famous writer."

"So you know me?" he asks, finally realizing what she must have meant by 'expected.'

"I might have seen your mug on page six a few times."

He smirks at 'mug'. Such a cop. "I mean," he tries again, "have you read any of my work?"

The loudspeaker goes off before she can answer. "If everyone will make their way to Room 111, we will start the next demonstration. Ever wanted to know how the police take down a suspect? Want to add authenticity to your story? It's all in the details, people. Up next: a first-hand look at the physicality of police work."

She tosses the empty dried fruit bag and stuffs the M&Ms into her jacket pocket. When he makes no move to leave their lunch date, he's so busy watching her, she rolls her eyes and then fixes him with a stare. Not a glare. A stare. And there's something behind it he wants to call amusement, or desire, or okay maybe just amusement.

"You comin'?" she asks.

Scrambling now, he almost gets them stuck in the doorway, trying to stay by her side. "'Course," he says.

She has no idea.

* * *

(reviews are love)


	2. Chapter 2

thank you for the lovely feedback!

part 2

also known as "excuse number bazillion and three to up the sexual tension, plus a tiny bit of plot"

* * *

It's only when he's flat on his stomach with his face in the floor, his hands cuffed behind him, that he thinks maybe, maybe, bribing the conference director to bump him to the top of the volunteer list might not have been such a good idea. And there actually was a list of volunteers by the time lunch was over, all because of this smart, sexy detective who no one expected to be here, least of all him.

Plus, he likes to be number one on lists, especially lists that involve "physicality" and hot women. He was number three the year before last, you know. Number three out of New York City's ten most eligible bachelors. Hence, bribery.

"Alright, there?" she asks, her hand fisted in his hair. Ooh, just like that, Kate.

"Mmm. Mmm mmm," he answers.

"As you can see," she says to the crowd of onlookers, "taking down a suspect doesn't require strength. It's a combination of intelligence and instinct. You have to watch them move. Find their weaknesses. Exploit them."

"Mmm. Mmmmmm mmm."

"What was that?" He knows she's smirking. Stupid floor.

"Mmmmmm mmm!"

She ignores him. "It's important to stay calm. Did you see how I approached him quickly, before he could make a move? If you get close enough, there's no room for him to take a swing at you. And that gets you close enough to hit one of his weak spots. In the nose. In the stomach. In the groin." He can feel her smirk now. If that's even possible. "Notice how as soon as I incapacitated him, the handcuffs went on. But that didn't mean that I stopped. Even with his hands taken out, he's still dangerous. So you put him against a wall. Or down on the floor. Maintain control."

She lets go of his hair, runs her nails across the back of his neck. Dear god.

"Let's give Mr. Castle a round of applause," she says. "Getting beaten up in front of all of you must be doing wonders for his reputation."

He cranes his neck around to see her sitting astride his back, smiling devilishly.

As the crowd applauds, mouths open in what he hopes is admiration or, better yet, jealousy of his predicament, he tries to stand up. And gets shoved back into the floor one last time as she gets up, brushes off her pants, and stands over him. He can tell by her heels. They're right next to his face now, taunting him. He tries to roll over, undeterred by the woman—she surely deserves the title now. The woman.

"You look like a wet seal," she says, her voice low.

He grunts. "Maybe if you'd take off these handcuffs."

"I thought you'd like those," she says, scrunching up her nose and tipping her head to the side. Oh, please.

He sighs. Now he's lying on his side, gazing up at her, wondering why she couldn't have saved the handcuffs for tonight—or, well, he might be getting ahead of himself. He doesn't so much mind the handcuffs or the dazed crowd, but the way she's laughing at him, not because he's told a good joke or wound her up inside a good story, but because she's just wrecked him, well, let's just say it isn't his idea of a great first date. Which reminds him.

She leans down to run the pads of her fingers along his wrist. He lets out a long breath, because crap, she knows exactly what he wants and yet he's still the one in cuffs. She's kneeling now, chest at his eye-level, and he needs to hold it together. Focus. Ask her. Now, while she's still touching him.

Strands of her hair fall across his shoulder.

"Isn't that a safety hazard?" he asks. Did not mean to ask. Damn.

"What?" she murmurs. "My hair? I didn't hear any complaints. And besides, it was just you."

"Just me," he protests. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Hmmm." There's a click. He's free, and she's smiling.

He lowers his voice. "Detective?"

"What now," she says, putting on her poker face again.

"Considering that I just risked my life to help you with this demonstration," he pauses, gauging the way her eyebrows twitch. "And considering that it's just me." Her fingers stiffen around her cuffs, and he sits up a little straighter. "We should get a drink. Or dinner. Or maybe coffee. Dancing! No, coffee would be good too."

"I don't owe you anything," she says enigmatically.

Then she leans in, resting her free hand on his thigh. He watches her eyes flick down, her pupils expanding. Oh. But she bypasses his mouth and the next thing he knows she's right up against him, her hand pressing hard against his leg, her soft cheek brushing his, and then her lips are at his ear, she's breathing hotly against his skin, and he just makes out an absolutely wicked smile on her face before his eyes fall shut in expectant ecstasy.

She whispers, "But since it's just you."

* * *

He straightens his jacket. Sniffs. Raises his gaze slowly to the crowd.

"You're here because you want to know what makes a murderer tick," he says. "You want to understand a kidnapper's rationale. You want to know what makes a cop hardened and how an agent can be turned. Let me be clear, I'm just a writer." A smile. "Just a writer! And I'll tell you this much: you're not going to understand the way a cop works a case or a spy runs a mission by attending a conference. You're not going to be able to recreate the details of a homicide—the smell, the tension, all the gory little details—until you've seen it. Lived it."

He has them rapt.

Even her.

She's still here, hovering in the back, fingers at her lips.

"I'm not advocating murder, here," he adds hurriedly. "But in order to get the details right, to find the foundations for your characters, to truly understand their drive, you have to do your research. For me, that meant cozying up to spies and jewel thieves. I blended into their world," he says, ignoring the harrumph that comes from her direction. "I probed their minds. I observed them meticulously."

He takes a sip of water and revels in the taut silence.

"So you've seen a couple of demonstrations today," he says, purposefully avoiding her eyes. "An interrogation, a take-down, and you think you've seen enough, right? Well, you haven't. You may think you're going to make stuff up for a living, but you have to remember that you're writing about someone's reality, a real world with its own heroes and villains, its legends and yes, its horror stories. You need to take to the streets for a while. Collect stories and meet characters. Soak up the desperation, the camaraderie, the stench of fear. And only then will you really be able to tell a tale."

Time to wrap this up, but not before leaving one last impression.

"I'm going to give you one last demonstration," he says. "It's a character exercise. Simple… but deadly."

He stands, adjusts his jacket again. Makes sure to meet everyone's eyes, except hers.

"Let's say we have a young cop, maybe five years in, doesn't make friends easily. She gets attention, too much of it, sometimes, but she shrugs it off, bows her head, and keeps working. She works hard, overtime, with scary drive. Still, clearly, she shouldn't be a cop. Beautiful, intelligent, tough—she could have been a lawyer, a doctor, anything really. But instead she's prowling the streets in her blues every night, trying to ignore the catcalls." A pause. "Obviously, something must have happened."

He risks a glance at her. He doesn't know what comes next.

"Something happened, and now she needs to fix it."

Maybe he's imagining it, but there's a glistening in her cold eyes. He didn't mean to go that far. She's been on his mind for the whole day now, and he thinks better aloud, and she's mysterious and intriguing and extraordinary, and he barely knows anything about her. He was just trying to figure her out. Apparently he succeeded.

"You get the idea," he says quickly as a sinking feeling sweeps over him. "Good luck in your writing. I'll be outside in a minute for pictures, autographs, and questions."

As the crowd disperses, folding chairs creaking in their wake, he gulps down some water and looks around. The uneasy feeling worsens as he looks for her in vain. She must have slipped out when he wasn't looking, because otherwise, he would have followed. If anything, he just meant to show her that he isn't completely shallow, that he respects her enough to want to know where she came from and why, that his come-ons earlier were just an awkward result of nerves and habit. He wants to know everything about her—her dreams, her fears, her secret desires. He wants her to tease him again. He wants to make her blush. He wants to know why he's falling so hard, so fast, for someone who has given him absolutely nothing.

Except hope.

Maybe he just imagined that, though.

He resolves to look her up when he gets home. Just in case.

"Clever," a voice behind him says, pitched low.

Oh. He turns. "Detective."

Her jaw is stiff. "Don't think you know me."

"I know," he says quickly. "But I want to. I want to know you."

It's far too late to salvage a date now. He can tell from the way her eyes shimmer with angry tears she'll never let drop in front of him. He just wishes…. He wishes he'd taken her walls seriously, because the woman has serious walls. He wishes he'd kept their interactions light, easy volleys of wit and innuendo so at least he could've collected more of her quirks, memorized her favorite barbs, and made her laugh a few more times before she shut him out completely. He wishes she would let him help her, let him fix whatever makes her smile so rare and her eyes so guarded.

But she ducks her head, avoiding his eyes. "Don't do this."

At the waver in her voice, he pounces. "What?"

"Don't try to be the hero," she says. "Don't try to save me, in whatever story you've cooked up about me."

There's a moment of silence, while he decides there's nothing left to lose.

"Do you need saving?" he asks softly.

She finally meets his eyes again. "Aren't you supposed to be signing autographs?"

"Yes, but—"

"Goodbye, Mr. Castle."


	3. Chapter 3

first off, wasn't that ep last night exquisite?

secondly, your feedback is much appreciated!

and now... part 3

because their goodbyes are never really goodbyes

* * *

It takes him three days to manufacture a reason to see her again.

On the first day, he uses his connections at the mayor's office and another gift-wrapped bottle of liquid bribery for the crime-writing conference director to find out exactly where Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, works, down to the right desk in the right bullpen in the Homicide Division of the 12th Precinct. It all feels a little stalkerish, but he passes it off as research. This is what a psycho stalker would do, right? Maybe he'll have to write one into his next book, to justify his behavior. He shivers with concern. Since when has he had to justify his behavior?

On the second day, he checks in with his florist. "I need a bouquet that says, 'I'm sorry,' 'I'm not always a pompous ass,' 'I really, really like you,' and 'I want to see you again,' he says, rubbing his chin as the list of sentiments gets entirely out of hand.

On the third day, he has an epiphany. It requires a call to his publisher slash ex-wife, but considering the circumstances, he's willing to make that personal sacrifice. By the time he winnows what he wants out of her—dodging her suspicious questions takes a few minutes—it's almost too late. The flowers have been sent off to a desk in a bullpen at the 12th Precinct already, his florist informs him, so he frantically buys off a busy bike messenger to catch up and sneak a few other offerings in between the blooms.

On the fourth day, he waits.

He's just towelling off after a shower when his phone rings, and he stumbles over his shoes, steps on a corner of his towel, and almost faceplants into his bed, trying to answer it.

"This is Rick."

"You looked me up, sent me flowers, and, conveniently, your number."

He smiles, because it's her, finally, even though he knows where this is going and it's nowhere good.

"And coffee," she adds in monotone. "Really expensive coffee."

"I'm something of a connoisseur," he says. "It's from a little village outside Rio, where the soil is especially fertile and the rainfall is perfectly timed to coincide with… I mean, I hope you like it. Your eyes actually lit up when I mentioned going out for coffee, and since I knew that couldn't have been about me…"

She lets him trail off into pained silence. "You can't buy my forgiveness."

"I know," he says through a clenched throat. "I'm sorry."

Heartbreaking silence.

"Kate?" he says, unable to take it.

"Yeah, Castle," she says on a sigh. The easy way she falls onto his last name, that soft ebb of disappointment and unshed tears—it's killing him. What more can he do? What else can he say to fix this besides... "I read it," she goes on. "Your note."

"And?" he asks.

She hesitates, and he can picture her chewing on her lip, considering him. "Thanks," she finally concedes.

"Of course. I meant it. And I really am sorry."

"I know," she says. "But next time..."

"Don't push. Stay out of your personal life. Got it."

Next time. She's planning for a next time. He fusses with the towel, needing something to do with his hands when the rush of gratitude, hope, respect is so strong that he really wants to sing, dance, and wrap his arms around this remarkable conundrum of a woman. His wet skin tingles and expectation flowers in his mind, as if to remind him, yet again, that reason can't explain his reaction to her.

"Did you find the invitation?" he asks, suddenly remembering.

"To your book launch."

"Not that you're a fan," he says quickly. "But there's going to be food, an open bar, of course, and you don't have to been seen with me or anything, just, you know, show up whenever you want and enjoy yourself. It'll be fun."

There's another weighty pause, and he makes a fist, pushing it hard into the mattress.

"Well," she says slowly, "I'm on call that night."

He deflates.

"But if things are quiet, I don't know."

His breath catches.

"Maybe."

Sitting on his bed naked, eyes wide, mouth open in the beginnings of a dazzling smile, he raises his fist in triumph.

* * *

He dodges a table stacked with his books, sidesteps a flirty fan, and slips around the bar, where he just avoids getting splashed in the face with an unnatural red concoction. At a huff from his darling daughter, who's holding down the territory with a textbook and a unfairly judgmental gaze, he drops to the floor, but not before whispering, "I was never here."

"Hiding from Gina again?" Alexis asks.

"Shh."

"Dad."

"Best Dad Ever, remember? No need to hand me to the piranhas."

She sighs. "Aye aye, Captain."

It isn't that he minds the attention a book launch brings, the cameras, the booze, or the whole shebang. But there's a heaviness on his chest tonight. It's the end of an era, and so he'd hoped for a distraction, even spent hours on his hair because the thought of the woman, yes, The Woman, turning up in a short cocktail dress to a party all about him made him quiver with excitement.

And now he's sitting on the floor under the bar, hiding from his ex-wife-slash-publisher, and wishing Kate Beckett had actually showed.

He gets comfortable, hoping whatever's on this floor doesn't end up soaking into his pants, and straining his ears for the slightest hint of Gina's barbed voice. She only wants to know why he knocked off the character that made them both filthy rich, how he plans to dig himself out of this gaping hole, when Black Pawn can expect his next masterpiece, what he's going to do with his life sans her, and more accurately, who he's going to do on those thousand thread-count sheets. Maybe the next rosy-cheeked girl who offers him her boobs, she'll suggest, and then stab his hand with a Sharpie.

He's torn from the cyclone of depressing thoughts when, from his station in the dark depths of the bar, he hears a catch of breath.

"Have you seen your father around?" Gina's voice materializes.

"Dad? No, not recently."

There's a tense pause. "He's hiding, isn't he."

"Why would he be hiding? He's not a child." Maybe go easy on the fibs, pumpkin?

"Fine. Tell him if he ever wants to sell another book, he'd better go home and write or get out here and sign some chests."

A huff, a sigh, and then his daughter's face appears over the lip of the bar.

"She's gone?"

"She's gone," Alexis says. "And you owe me."

He stands up, and pretends to think hard. "Ice cream for breakfast."

"How about peace and quiet while I study," she says, sitting back on her stool.

"Boring," he whines, then at her look adds, "Okay, deal."

"So," she says slowly, "what are you going to do?"

"I don't know, she didn't leave me with many options."

There's a moment of silence between them, then, "Dad?"

"Sweetie?"

"You're not having some kind of mid-life crisis, are you?"

"Mid-life?" he splutters.

"You killed off Derrick."

"He was becoming too predictable."

"And then there was Gina."

"She's really on a warpath tonight, isn't she?"

She accepts the duck. "And you've always loved parties about you."

He sighs. "I know. I just wanted tonight to be... different."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," he says, even though he really, really does.

* * *

He decides to sign more women's chests. It seems like the prudent thing to do.

The next half hour goes by quickly, his ex-wife looking on with an expression of bitter satisfaction, his mother launching herself after a suitably older man, and his hand getting steadily more tired of all the awkward writing angles. The pounding music and flashing lights are putting him on edge, making his blood run quick, and the champagne is running so fast, he can't remember how much he's had to drink, and he knows he's grinning every time he hears his name uttered with idolatry, but you know what they say. Smile enough and eventually you'll feel happy. But he wishes...

He snaps his Sharpie closed and lifts his gaze up from the last woman's offering to check on his studious daughter over at the bar, his former sanctuary. His throat tightens. He watches a woman with familiar short brown hair and a rich red dress sink stiffly onto a bar stool. He watches his daughter look up and smile politely. "Hi," he figures she's saying. "Hi," the woman seems to reply.

Please move, he begs his legs. Please.

Then he's striding over to Alexis and Kate, wondering desperately what's going to come out of his mouth when he finally reaches them. Is Kate going to smile at him tonight? Is it going to be that adorably tight-lipped one with the mischievous eyes? Does she still think about the way her fingers rubbed circles on his wrists, or what it felt like to be so close to him that they could hear each others' hearts racing? Has she really forgiven him for pushing past the sparks between them because he wants more?

As he reaches the bar, her eyes suddenly snap to his.

"So," he says, breathlessly, "you came."


	4. Chapter 4

part 4

"the one where Castle is irresistible and they're both a little tipsy"

* * *

She smiles.

He steadies himself against the bar, because her sweet, soft, sexy smile does things to him, impossible things. A little ways down the bar, he senses Alexis turn back to her textbook, but she must have seen the look on his face, and it must have told her everything she needed to know, for now. That he was waiting all night for this woman. That the hours spent perfecting his hair was for her. Does Kate even notice? He tilts his head forward so a few strands will fall stylishly onto his forehead.

"I couldn't resist seeing you dolled up like a movie star," she says, still smiling. "But the sunglasses. Really?"

He huffs and takes the barstool next to her, spinning around to wield a close-lipped grin. "If you were as famous as I am, you'd appreciate them. You have no idea how ravenous the press are."

"Didn't you invite them? So you can sell your little book?"

"Little book?" The outrage! "I'll have you know, Detective, that my 'little book' is about to become a best-seller. They're going to call the prose compelling, the story heartbreaking, the characterization a perfect study of the soul of a legend. The ultimate mystery thriller, they'll say. The complete package. They're going to beg."

"Are they now?"

"Yes, actually. If you knew how devoted my readers are, you would understand. When they see what happens to Derrick-"

"Wait!" she cuts in, then immediately looks like she regrets it. "Spoiler alert?"

At the tentative question, he considers her. "You read my books," he realizes, euphoria creeping over him at the possibilities. Solve one puzzle, and a hundred more appear. "You don't want me to give away the ending to _Storm Fall_, because you've read the series. You're a fan. You're a fan of me! And it's only been a week since the writing conference, so you couldn't possibly have read all of those books between then and now, what with your detective work. And everyone could tell you thought that conference was ridiculous, as did I, so what were you doing there in the first place? They usually send a regular cop. It's not exactly a great gig. Maybe it was punishment, but that's not likely-you like to follow the rules, I can tell. Oh." He stops short, stunned, because that must mean, wait, no way, really?

She looks dismayed.

He gasps. "You volunteered."

Then he watches, delighted, as she stutters over an answer.

"Don't worry," he interrupts. "You're secret's safe with me."

She looks halfway between wanting to laugh and wanting to hit him.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asks, to dissuade her from the latter. He'll delve into her fangirl status at a later date. At her nod he signals for the bartender, who'd better not spill the beans on the potentially embarrassing events that took place heretofore. "So... champagne? The hard liquor's all gone," he adds, hoping that isn't a deal breaker.

"Probably for the best," he must be imagining she mutters, then she offers him a nod and a cryptic smile.

He passes the nod onto the bartender and realizes, wildly, that there've been an unprecedented number of smiles tonight. That's it. He's going to start a catalogue of Kate Beckett's smiles. The amazing part of it is, this isn't Kate Beckett in her natural habitat, as far as he knows, and yet the second he walked up he saw the tension melt from her shoulders, the corners of her eyes crinkle, and those lovely lips curl upwards. At the thought, he can't stop himself.

"You look beautiful," he says, giving her his best genuine, hopeful, sideways grin.

She looks down at her lap, a small smile still playing at her lips. "Cops can clean up nice too, you know."

"Oh," he says in mock seriousness, "I know."

A half hour later, after they've covered everything from Alexis ("She's sweet") to a top NYPD detective's crime-fighting skills ("You have no idea how hot that is"), she's sipping her fourth flute of champagne, pretending to ignore a monologue about his actually respectable karate skills, one of her pinkies dangling adorably in the air, when a familiar, sickly sweet voice appears, attached to a pair of disturbingly spiky heels and a slash of red lipstick for a mouth. Paula.

"Oh, Ri-ick," his agent calls out. "Don't tell me you're hiding over here again." When he begins to protest, she continues, "Gina told me. She also said you've been sulking for the past few hours, at your own party! And there's still dozens of books to sign, hundreds of people longing to take your picture, and since you clearly can't handle anything without me, we're going to march over there and..." she trails off, as if suddenly realizing they have company.

She didn't. He knows her better than that. Paula's been eyeing Kate for minutes now like a panther examining her prey.

"And who's this?" she asks, voice reaching unnatural heights as she turns to Kate with one penciled eyebrow raised.

"Detective Kate Beckett," the mark answers cooly.

"She's my guest," he adds. "I mean, she came on her own, not that she's not with someone, but I-"

"Kate Beckett," Paula says, rolling it over her tongue. "Detective. Rick, is there something you need to tell me?"

"Yes. No! Nothing at all."

"Because you know how hungry the press are," she says, "and how many of them are still here, gnawing on their toothpicks, waiting for something juicy to happen. So before they get any ideas, I suggest you take this little party of yours somewhere else." She gives him a long look, then turns on her heel.

"We were just talking, weren't we?" he asks sullenly.

She's silent a moment. He prays that this night isn't over, because they're clicking again, everything was going spectacularly, and what if he never sees her again? What if she disappears into the night without a glance over her shoulder? That chilling thought provokes another that's been on his mind all week: what the hell is she doing to him?

Then she cracks a smile, a hint of mischief in her eyes. Wait, what?

"So," she says, "I'd rather not end up in the paper with you tomorrow."

He's about to agree, sorrowfully, that she should leave right now, save her own skin, escape while the hyenas are still oblivious, but then he freezes, because he realizes that that isn't what she's not asking, that her logic is based on two assumptions: that she doesn't want to be seen with him, but that she does want to be with him, somewhere else, alone, probably where they can do god knows what together until the first rays of dawn. Obviously he's going to focus on the latter point.

"Are you saying," he says slowly, raising one eyebrow, "that we should ditch my own party?"

She downs the last of her drink, slips off the stool, smooths down her dress, and meets his wide, shining eyes. "Coming, Castle?"

* * *

He's dying.

He's dying from happiness.

He grabbed a full bottle of champagne from under the bar, and she shook her head and smiled. He let her take the lead, and they found themselves in a small but suitably isolated room off the kitchen, where the banging of pots and pans fills the air and the air itself is thick with the scent of shrimpy appetizers.

Once inside, she slips off her heels with a sigh, and they sink down against the wall, and she teases him when his knees creak, and he compares her graceless plop to that of a baby giraffe, and really, now, how long has it been since he's laughed this hard, smiled this wide, wanted this much?

They decide to open the champagne.

His face reddens, his eyes squinting with the effort as he works at the cork, and she sits there next to him, watching, smirking, and finally she offers to do it like a real man, and he can't handle her, he just can't. He pops the cork, mentally blaming her intoxicating looks and just her general presence for the delay while the fizz sprays all over his lap. Oops.

Her eyes go wide and he thinks, shit, now Paula's really going to have ideas.

"I should clean up," he says quickly, as she holds a hand to her forehand and dissolves into laughter.

He sets down the bottle, plants a hand on the floor between them, intending to get up, go find some napkins, but then her hand lands on top of his, and she quiets, and he stops breathing, and they sit there, frozen, until he dares to flip his hand over underneath hers, letting her warm, slim fingers fall between his, and oh, this is finally happening.

He leans toward her and hears her breath quicken. He clasps her hand and watches her jaw tremble.

Now you know what you do to me, he wants to say. You electrify me.

He turns to better reach her, raising his eyes to find hers wide, dark, and focused on his mouth.

"Kate," he whispers and gulps at her shiver.

There's a moment of hesitation, when the kitchen noises disappear and the party outside evaporates and the whole world seems to stop around them, and it's just her pale cheeks, her deep eyes, her parted lips, her shallow breaths, and he can't think for the waves of feeling breaking inside him.

She leans closer, above it all, and brushes her nose against his cheek. "Kiss me," she whispers. "Or else."


	5. Chapter 5

and so we come to the end

thanks for reading!

part 5 (of 5)

"it's getting hot in here" and yes, some darned plot

WARNING: this chapter might deserve an M rating for language and mature themes

* * *

_"Kiss me," she whispers. "Or else."_

It's been a long week since they first met, and she reads his books and solves crimes and can put him down on the mat in an instant, and he's been dreaming constantly about what he'd like to do with her, where he'd like to be with her, when he'd like to be with her (always), and she's like lightning and he's like thunder and tonight they're going to set the whole world rocking.

He dips to take her mouth, and she bows into him, and then they're sucking and groping and grasping and sighing into each other.

He can feel her sure lips, her searching tongue, her hot hand on his jaw, her shallow breaths against his cheek.

He can hear her heart pounding. Or maybe it's his.

He traces kisses up her jaw, one after another as he exults in the soft slopes of her skin, the give of her body. She threads an arm around him, curls her hand at his neck, tugs at his hair, then plunges beneath his shirt collar with scorching fingers. He doesn't know who starts it, but soon they're trading murmurs, yeses and pleases and gods, and he wants more than anything to make her really lose control, especially if she takes him over the edge with her.

And he needs her to understand that this is already more to him than just kisses and caresses, even if she doesn't want to hear it, even if it hurts her to know how much he already cares. He knows that his words affect her, but he doesn't yet know how much. Time to find out.

"Kate," he whispers against her insistent mouth. "Let me... oh... tell you a story."

She pulls back enough to find his eyes, swallows.

"It's about," he kisses her, "a cop."

She goes still.

He leans in again, holding a firm hand behind her head. He wants to write this story against her lips.

"She's stunning, brilliant, strong," he murmurs. "She works like her life depends on it. And sometimes it's like there's an anchor around her neck, and she has to lift it alone to take even the smallest step." He doesn't give her time to absorb that blow. "One day she meets a writer, a devilishly handsome man who pokes and prods because everything about her fascinates him. He likes to tease her and watch her roll her eyes. He doesn't mind being her punching bag, because he likes the way she touches him. And he wonders about that anchor and that lonely task, and he imagines that someday she might let him help, because he also really likes it when she smiles."

It feels like she's stopped breathing.

He runs his hands over her shoulders, down her back, along her legs, and he's about to have serious regrets about opening old wounds at the worst possible time, and he doesn't blame her when her eyes dart away from him. He doesn't have to be a psychic to know that he's sapping her reserves of courage, cornering her in this small room with his lips and his hands and his heart.

He wishes he could read her mind, though, because suddenly she seems to relinquish whatever mental battle he's begun, and her face relaxes and her eyes unfocus and he doesn't know what's going on anymore but he has a horrible feeling that this is all about to end.

She starts to move away and he protests, tangling his fingers in her short, wild hair.

No, Kate. Stay.

"Castle," she sighs, leaning on the hard consonant in a way that makes him shiver.

He's running through scenarios, but they're all collapsing into the same disastrous ending, and he can't let her leave again. He can't. But he'd promised not to pry. But he wants all of her, down to the last scar. He's still hyperventilating, readying himself for the inevitable, when—

—she turns around, hikes up her dress, and straddles him, her fierce gaze pinning him to the wall.

"Wait," he gasps, grappling past her darkness to recall the unfortunate champagne incident of before. "You're going to get wet."

She bites her lip, leans forward, and growls into his ear, "Too late."

He groans.

When she pulls back to look at him, her eyes are watering, and suddenly she's rolling her hips down onto him, and her head's falling forward onto his shoulder, and she's muttering incoherently, digging her fingers into his neck. And he can't help it, he has to move too, even if she's doing this in spite of the way he's insinuating himself into the most shadowed corners of her life, even if there are glaring shades of fury to her every touch.

It isn't long before she's shoving his hand between their bodies and up her dress, and there he dances his fingertips up the insides of her thighs, dropping heated kisses to her neck and absorbing her every frustrated shift. She's completely wound up, pressing hard into him while he works.

He wants to make her wait. He wants to earn every shudder. But she's too far along and even the totality of his self-control can't compete against Kate Beckett gasping into him for the first time, frantic, pleading with him to finish her.

He does. She's loud. He closes his eyes to listen.

Her final tremor gives way to an odd ringing.

It's her phone.

By the time she hangs up, her face is blank. "I have to go."

"What?" he says. "But, we just, and you, and I thought—"

"I'm on call. Remember?" She's already standing up, pushing down her dress, and running her hands through her hair in an unsuccessful attempt to tame the mess he made. "I told you on the phone that I might not make it," she adds, without a hint of warmth. "But I came, didn't I?"

He shoves the growing ache back where it came from. "Yes," he says, trying for seductive, praying for a laugh. "Yes, you did."

Her mouth twists, and she turns to leave, and he can't let it end.

"Can I see you again?" he asks, wincing as he stands.

She looks back at him, eyes wild and bright. She looks like she wants to say something, but can't.

"What do I need to do?" he asks. "Send more coffee? Write you a book?"

"I just—I have to go," she says. "Murder calls."

* * *

The next morning is a Sunday.

He's fast asleep, probably drooling onto his pillows, dreaming of the epic lust and loss of last night. His mattress dips, a soft hand runs through his hair, and he groans something about weekends and hangovers and please, just another hour or three. But then a familiar voice speaks his name, only his last name, and he opens bleary eyes to what must be a dream.

Kate Beckett, in his bedroom, soothing him awake.

She immediately stands up and backs away from the bed. "Alexis let me in," she says.

"Oh," he replies.

She's silent, like she can't figure out where to begin.

"Not that I'm not glad to see you, but..." he trails off, not wanting to have to say it.

"My boss thinks I need you."

His jaw drops.

"Not, no, not like that," she stumbles on. "There was a murder. The body was laid out just like in _Flowers for Your Grave_, roses on her body, sunflowers on her eyes? And I mentioned your book, and Captain Montgomery remembered your name from the conference program, and he figured out that I've met you."

"Okay," he says, although this is more than okay.

"So he sent me to bring you in—"

"Ooh, are you going to cuff me?"

"No," she says, a little flustered. "You're not a suspect."

"Ah," he says, "I see. I have an incorruptible alibi. You."

She looks away, latching onto the mess of sheets he's pushed to the end of the bed.

"You could have called," he says, and shit, why even question her coming here?

"It's procedure."

Is it really? "Of course," he says.

"Montgomery expects you at the precinct at ten."

"It's the weekend," he protests. "It's early."

"This is my shift."

He backpedals. "Then I can't wait."

She's edging toward the door, so he climbs out of bed, shivering in boxer shorts and a light tee-shirt.

"You could stay for a few minutes," he says quickly. "I'll make coffee. Ooh, or pancakes!"

He isn't surprised by her refusal, but guess who has another chance? Thank you, Captain Montgomery.

He hears Kate Beckett letting herself out of his apartment. The next moment he's tearing through his closet to find the perfect suit, dashing over to the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker, and wondering frantically if he should bring anything, a few signed copies of _Flowers for Your Grave_, perhaps?

By 8am he's dressed and his hair is perfect and he decides he can't wait any longer to see her again.

He says goodbye to his daughter and heads to work.

* * *

Javier Esposito had a good weekend.

Before the body dropped on Saturday night, he'd already fit in some basketball, some video games, even some ladies, and he almost didn't mind when the call came in about a dead woman covered with fucking _flowers_. Who does that, anyway? Nasty. Then Beckett showed up, champagne on her breath, and she went on and on about how "you don't read, do you" and "obviously, the psycho who did this read a book by some guy named Nick Castle," and then Captain Montgomery called her into his office. She came out looking like he'd demoted her to mall cop.

Now it's early Sunday morning, and Esposito slouches into the bullpen. He skips his desk and heads straight over to consider their sad excuse for a murder board, strewn with the little they'd dug up last night on the vic and the barest bones of a timeline. They have a lot of work to do. There's still a killer on the loose.

That's why he's confused to find Beckett in the break room.

He walks in on a glaring match between her and a tall, strange man holding two steaming cups of coffee.

"I can make my own coffee," she's saying.

"I promise you this is better," the man replies.

They both turn to Esposito, frozen mid-argument.

"What's up, Beckett?" he asks.

"Nothing," she says coldly.

"Who's the civilian?"

"Hey!" the man interjects. "How do you know I'm not a cop?"

"Easy," Esposito says. "Suit, watch, hair. And those baby soft hands. Oh, shit, is it hot in here? Because I'm on _fire_."

Beckett rolls her eyes. "Detective Esposito, this is Richard Castle, the writer."

"Ah," Esposito says, looking back at Beckett. "What is he? Your new pet?"

"Close enough."

"Captain Montgomery asked me to consult on the case," Castle adds. "After all, I'm something of an expert."

"What, do you have a flower fetish? Because, man, that 'sunflowers on her eyes' stuff is just wrong."

Beckett looks pained. "Esposito, go find Ryan and keep digging into the vic's background."

"Right, boss." He hears her sigh as he saunters out the door.

He could swear that there's something going on between Beckett and that writer. There was some serious sexual energy in the air when he walked in. If they didn't have a real case to solve, he'd investigate these new developments in the personal life of Kate Beckett, ice queen.

Ryan's bent over his desk. "Dude, have you started reading this?" he asks, holding up Castle's freaky book.

"No," Esposito says. "But, I met the author."

"What? Where?" Ryan asks quickly, then has the tact to look embarrassed. "It's actually pretty good."

At that exact moment, Beckett leaves the break room, the writer trailing behind her. They head toward her desk, where she falls into her chair with a long sigh that everyone around here knows is evidence of a dangerous level of frustration. Castle sets the coffees down on her desk, way the hell too close to her computer, and glances quickly around the precinct like he's looking for something.

"What's he doing?" Ryan asks.

Castle finds a chair. He drags it over until it's right next to Beckett's desk. And then he sits. They watch as he rests an arm on the desk inches away from her hands, nudging her rack of thick files. She glares at him, says something. He smirks and answers. He doesn't move away.

Esposito smiles.

Writer Man is wooing Beckett. And she's letting him.

Ryan's quiet for a moment. Then he wonders aloud, "How long do you think 'til she pulls her Glock on him?"

"Nah, come on. Are you a detective or what? Look at them."

"What?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"_What?_"

"Forget it, bro." Esposito watches as the detective and her writer continue to bicker. "But for the record? I'd give them forever."


End file.
